


The Blue Rose of Remembrance

by Snowgrouse



Category: Thief of Bagdad (1940), كتاب ألف ليلة وليلة | Kitaab 'alf layla wa-layla | One Thousand and One Nights
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Dark Het, Erotic Poetry, F/M, Fluff, Heroine/Villain, Metaphysics, Middle Ages, Muslim characters, Poetry, Romance, Schmoop, Soul Bond, Telepathy, The Golden Age of Islam, The Thousand And One Nights--poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 04:46:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9419375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowgrouse/pseuds/Snowgrouse
Summary: Poetry. An alternate ending to the blue rose scene, playing once more with the idea of Jaffar originally having been the djinni Yassamin so loved. This time, the rose is not one of forgetfulness, but a fragrance that reveals to her her hidden, suppressed memories of all those times he had come to her in his ghostly form.***Behold--The Blue Rose of ForgetfulnessIs to Yassamin of Basra becomeThe Blue Rose of Remembrance:For from its sweet fragranceThat so undoes the mind's defensesAre like petals now unfurledMemories hidden and suppressedAll these things she has until nowHidden tightly under lock and keyWithin the deepestmost chambersOf her heart.For the outer world would have thoughtHer a woman unchaste, a vile harlotFor so having loved her seductor invisible,For so having enjoyed her debauchement:The whisper upon the breezeThat had set her heart alight,The reflection she had been looking forIn every looking-glass,Upon the surface of her pool in vain;That soft kiss of lips fleshless and ghostlyPressed to her neck in worship.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A poem in celebration of Conrad Veidt's 124th birthday. May you live forever, you magnificent, ridiculous panther.

Behold--  
The Blue Rose of Forgetfulness  
Is to Yassamin of Basra become  
The Blue Rose of Remembrance:

For from its sweet fragrance  
That so undoes the mind's defenses  
Are like petals now unfurled  
Memories hidden and suppressed

All these things she has until now  
Hidden tightly under lock and key  
Within the deepestmost chambers  
Of her heart.

For the outer world would have thought  
Her a woman unchaste, a vile harlot  
For so having loved her seductor invisible,  
For so having enjoyed her debauchement:

The whisper upon the breeze  
That had set her heart alight,  
The reflection she had been looking for  
In every looking-glass,  
Upon the surface of her pool in vain;  
That soft kiss of lips fleshless and ghostly  
Pressed to her neck in worship.

All these she had kept locked up  
Guarded as tightly as her father  
Had guarded her virtue  
With high walls about her garden  
Forbidding, unscalable, unyielding:

Only the power of great witchcrafts  
The skill of the greatest of sorcerers  
The might of one well-versed in the occult arts  
Could these walls defy--

Both the walls of her garden  
And the ones fear and shame had erected  
Around the soft and quivering core  
Of her wanton, restless mind:

Only during the night, in dreams  
Had her spirit been able  
To walk free, dance free  
With her ghostly gallant;

Only in her sleep had she been able to love  
With all the fierce passion of her spirit  
With this man made of but spirit,  
Her soul's gentle companion.

And trembling in joy,  
To his embraces had she yielded  
In the kinder, more merciful, more sweet  
World of fantasies, dreams.

Upon waking,  
Had her soul again been confined  
Within the prison of the Yassamin  
The rest of the world knew--

Still the haughty virgin, cold  
Still the old maid refusing to be married  
Still but the legend of the unattainable princess  
Whom all men knew  
But none had ever seen.

Yet, today, this day, this very moment  
She yields to this fragrance strange and queer  
Yet all that it now brings in its wake  
Is to her as familiar  
As her very own self:

For behold,  
She is now being spoken to  
By her very own soul  
Echoing into her ears  
The memory of those words  
Spoken to her by her djinni  
Pulling them out of her sleep  
And lifting them out into the daylight  
Of her waking consciousness:

"Remember," the scent exhorts  
"Remember the vows we exchanged  
Your hands in mine  
Vows sealed with kiss upon fervent kiss:  
That night when you, my Yassamin, told me

That from the beginning of time  
You had always been mine;  
That today, here and now, you were mine,  
That you would always be mine  
Until the end of time."

"Djinni!"  
She exclaims, now,  
Sitting down in her wonder,  
Dizzied there upon the rich rug  
For now her dream has become reality.

Yet as if within a dream  
Impossible things become possible  
And from inside Yassamin,  
The haughty virgin,  
The pearl unpierced  
Steps forward the eager bride  
For behold:  
Her bridegroom has come.

As blue as the rose  
His sapphire velvets,  
Velvet as blue and as soft as the rose's petals  
His movements as slow and as intoxicating  
As its gently unfolding fragrance  
Enfolding her within his embrace  
She unfurling as sweetly as the rose in turn  
To his kiss.

He her sunlight,  
He her breeze  
He her rain  
His the gentle hands that have tended to her  
For months, years  
With great patience,  
Great care,  
Great sacrifice

Even now his smile wounded  
From Loneliness's thorns:  
She looks up into his eyes  
And in their vertignious heavens  
A swallow, she soars and soars.

"That you came for me,"  
She murmurs,  
The honey of her eyes  
Now liquid, warm and soft and sweet;  
"That you were real indeed,  
After all these years--  
Madnesses, fevers I thought my dreams--!"

And now, her head falls to her chest  
Her eyelashes that swallow's wings  
Now plunging down in despair.

For by his truly existing  
He has proven to her  
Her own harlotry.

 _I am a wanton,_  
She thinks,  
A sob catching ugly and bilious in her breast;  
Would any man want such a whore?

But it is then that he picks up her chin  
With the beauty of his  
Elegant, long-fingered hand  
And as he speaks  
\--oh, but how his voice shakes her  
Now when it is no longer a whisper dreamt,  
A quiet thing fancied, remembered--

Soft, feline, feminine  
It breaks in his throat a little  
As that hoarse call of a cat  
To its mistress in the night:

"Never could I fault you for loving;  
Oh, trust me, my beloved sweet:  
What you think your harlotry  
Is to me a promise of things  
I thought I would  
Never again in my life  
Be blessed enough to feel:

The sincere love and passion  
Of a woman.

I expected my hopes to be dashed  
\--And my hope was for a love tender, sweet--  
\--A love of hands held and soft kisses--  
\--A love noble and chaste  
Was what I expected from a princess  
If I were but lucky enough to earn it--  
But not only did you give me that,"

He laughs and now cups her face  
Pressing his forehead against hers  
His eyes wide and crooked from his mirth  
His teeth more crooked still  
As his smile draws back  
The curtain of dark severity  
That had covered his face  
For long and bitter years, decades:

"You offered to me your Desire  
And, my lady, in it I bathe  
As if a pilgrim at a sacred spring!

Aye, so you wash me and cleanse me  
Of my miseries  
As a man purifies himself  
Before uttering prayers  
So that he would not with a filthy mouth  
Speak the words of angels  
Breathe air foul in the direction of the Almighty:

Thus you cleanse from me all bitterness  
The depth of your love and your passion  
Purifying me with their utter sincerity  
Washing from me all doubts and fears

And not only that,  
But that you should offer me  
The kind of fulfillment  
Few men ever get to enjoy in their conjugal bed!"

At that, her eyelashes flutter down once more  
All of her flushed and red  
She now to his blue rose  
A rose scarlet:

"Forgive me, my lord!"  
She murmurs.

But upon the ripples of his gentle laughter  
He picks up and carries the tremor  
The new wave of sensual delight  
That now surges through her body  
From deep inside of her womb.

He but shakes his head.  
"There is nothing to forgive, my child,"  
He says with such reassurance,  
Such firm gentleness  
That it banishes from her spirit  
All dark clouds of needless shame.

"One should not apologise  
For being a miracle,"  
He laughs, his voice again creaking  
A little from his own astonishment  
At his luck, he, too  
Still dizzy from disbelief;  
"Nay, indeed there is nothing to apologise for  
For being a man's dream come true."

"And you this woman's," she blurts,  
Biting her lip  
So as not to curl up from her shame once more.

Oh, but again this makes her tremble:  
That he should hold up her secrets  
Out into the light like this  
And celebrate things the rest of the world  
Would shame and punish, kill a woman for--  
Deeming lustfulness evil  
Even if directed at her own husband-to-be.

And it is at that thought--  
Of him as her husband-to-be--  
That he moans,  
Letting out a startled cry.  
"Say that again!"

She blinks.  
"You can hear my thoughts?"

He nods.  
"Shall I show you mine?"

But before she has even said "Yes,"  
She is overtaken--  
His exhilaration, his happiness,  
His desire a herd of wild horses  
Trampling her underfoot,  
So sudden is the galloping surge  
That it threatens to crush her  
Underfoot, underfoot--

She falls onto the carpet with a cry  
And he is kneeling beside her,  
Murmuring apologies.

"I am sorry.  
I got carried away, you see--  
I forgot how terrifying it can be  
To have another's mind speak to yours--  
And here I was, not speaking  
So much as shouting!"  
He says, his hands now trembling as  
They hover over her face, her body  
He now too terrified to even touch her.

"Oh, Merciful God!  
Now I have ruined it;  
Now I have done what I had always feared--  
Terrified you with my beastliness,  
My vileness--"  
He now moans and tugs open his robe  
Ripping up his silken undershirt  
Beating his heart with his fist  
In his sorrowed rage  
In his hatred towards himself.

"My lord!"  
She stares at him, dumbfounded  
For now it is her own shame  
And her own anxiousness  
That she sees a reflection of in him  
But a male form of her own anguished self.  
Is this how foolish she had seemed to him?

She must mend this.  
She takes her hand  
And closes it around his fist  
Gesturing for him to open it  
And then slips her own hand underneath it  
To his wildly beating heart:  
Another's heart,  
A man's heart,  
A lover's heart galloping  
_For her, for her, for her._

He but holds her hand there  
Clasping it tight  
Searching her eyes with his;  
His eyes flickering like the surface of her pool  
As he had breathed his words of love  
Over it to woo her  
Singing her to be his, his.

And it is she who now breaks the silence  
And speaks, astonished as she says it:  
"I do not even know your name.  
Would you tell me it  
So that I might use it  
To comfort you by,  
To love you by?"

 _And to moan in the heat of passion,_  
She thinks,  
But does not yet say this out loud--

However, from the flash of glee  
In his now-wet eyes  
From the widening of his little smile  
To an outright wicked, lecherous grin  
She knows he must have heard this thought also;  
It is into another womb-tremor,  
Another scarletness of her cheeks  
That he now presses his voice's soft kiss.

"Jaffar."

 _A wellspring._  
What could be more perfect?

And now, he takes her hand from his heart  
And presses a kiss to its palm  
With such great solemnity and tenderness  
That it is as if he were laying  
His very heart in it--

For hers to keep,  
To deal with as she pleases  
To either hold it,  
Keep it safe in her palm  
Or crush it to dust in her fist.

"That is indeed what I mean," he says  
And remains there kneeling beside her  
Rocking a little upon his knees  
But then, taking her hand again to his heart  
Forces himself to still.

"My sweet lady Yassamin--  
Will you marry me?"

He asks,  
And it is terrible to behold  
A man so tall, so beautiful, so powerful  
Trembling like a leaf:

"Would you let this wellspring  
Be the one to quench  
The thirst of your jasmine?  
For I swear that from that day on  
I would keep you and cherish you  
And make sure you never knew  
Hunger or thirst  
Whether those of your body  
Or your heart and spirit,"

He murmurs softly,  
His eyes flickering back and forth  
Twin blue flames.

"I promise upon my life  
That my life shall be yours  
And with all my powers  
I would forever protect you  
And so cherish you  
That no woman on this earth  
Has known such a love  
Since Solomon Sheba did  
With his magics keep:  
Aye, so would I for ever shelter you  
As the Simurgh shelters her loved ones  
Within the shadow of her blessed wings."

Her breast heaves from her sob  
And to her own heart  
She now brings his hand:  
She feels indeed a fledgling  
Her heart a little bird  
Fluttering its wings against his hand;

Yet upon her head, she feels, too,  
The crown of a queen,  
The greatest of queens  
Enthroned upon the top of the world  
By these magics he is now offering her.

She closes her eyes and sees  
What he is with his mind  
Now revealing to her  
No more and no less  
Than his secretmost,  
Most cherished dream  
The walls of his bitterness  
Coming crashing down  
From everywhere around it:

His hot tears falling upon  
Their hands now clasped over her chest  
For he has been so afraid,  
So afraid of rejection  
So afraid of Fate--  
Fate having laid to waste  
All his dreams,  
All his happinesses  
Before Yassamin herself  
Had even taken birth.

The tragedy of the Barmakids--  
She knows the legends of it all too well  
Jaffar the only survivor  
Of a massacre of even women and children;  
The beginning of a lifetime  
Of hatred, distrust, lovelessness  
No one in the history of this land  
Ever having been punished for loving  
As terribly as he.

But now,  
Harun falls,  
His descendants fall  
A shudder of disgust going through her  
As she remembers almost having given herself  
To the butcher's grandson  
Having mistaken him for her true djinni--

"Forget this, my love,  
As I am forgetting it,"  
Jaffar commands her,  
Commands his own soul  
Into a new faith, hope, belief  
Tearing up the memories  
From before a new dawn  
A new life together with her:

He now shivering in pain  
As he reveals to her his greatest vulnerability  
An open wound  
Shuddering as he,  
Expecting a knife-blow from  
_Anyone else, Yassamin,  
Anyone else but you_  
Now shows to her his dream:

Himself and Yassamin,  
Reading a book together in bed.  
He running his finger across a line  
Of script in a language unknown to her  
He translating it for her as he reads:  
She listening keenly,  
Imbibing the book's knowledge  
With a scholar's passion as great as his:  
She looking at him with a delighted smile.

Yassamin, drawing a magic circle  
Standing within it beside him  
Taking his hand  
As great in sorcery's art as he  
Made his complete equal  
By the powers he knows  
Already stir within her  
Ready to blossom  
Once she is but given the means--

All the books her father had forbidden from her,  
Magics greater and higher  
Than those allowed for women  
He having seen her perform with great skill  
All those rites  
The older women of the harem  
Had taught her--

She standing before him  
In the full moon's silvern light  
Naked, her arms outstretched  
Her head held proud and high  
Ishtar spreading her wings:  
Yassamin, the queen of all witches.

And then, the sweetest of all his hopes and dreams:  
She, in the red garments of a bride  
Her golden ornaments making music  
As she feeds him honey from her fingertips;  
Her hair fragrant,  
Decked with jasmine blossoms.

A rain of little white petals  
Fluttering onto his face  
As she leans down to kiss him  
Raining down onto his thighs  
As she rises above him  
And with her body, takes his:  
The colours of the sunset painting  
Her skin a myriad colours.

And later,  
The red and the green and the blue  
Lanterns of the bridal chamber  
Continuing the dance of colour upon her flesh  
As they make love  
All night, all night, all night  
He always, always hers,  
She always, always his.

She can bear it no more.  
Harlot or no,  
She pulls him down  
On top of herself  
Taking his mouth in a wild kiss.

"Yes, my love, yes;  
A thousand times yes,  
Yes, yes, yes, yes!"  
She now cries, murmurs,  
Whispers, sobs,  
Stutters in his embrace.

He, in turn  
Swallows from her breath each "yes"  
A fiery cupful of brandywine;  
And just as the spirit of wine  
Burns with a flame bright  
If brought to touch fire  
They roll there aflame,  
In crackling, fluttering, leaping sighs:  
Made such a conflagration  
That neither knows  
Who is spark  
And whom is tinder  
As fire is inseparable from its power to burn  
As the sun is inseparable from its light.

"When do we wed?"  
He asks her, breathless,  
His heart alight;  
And to her this now seems absurd  
As absurd as asking  
If there was ever a time  
Yassamin was not called Yassamin:  
For it is her own soul she is making love to  
And he talking to the flame  
That has always burned within his chest:

"When have we ever not been  
Spouses, beloved sweet?"  
She asks him,  
Her toes curling, aflutter so  
That her slippers come off her feet.

He nods,  
His turban now unravelling  
So much that he pulls it off himself  
And the musk of his hair  
Falls on either side of their faces  
Curtaining her with its black and silver.

"The philosophers say  
That all great lovers  
Have once all been but the one soul in Heaven  
One sphere split into two halves:  
And that inevitably,  
Like magnets,  
They will be drawn together  
Find each other  
Once God has fashioned for them bodies  
To take birth upon this earth."

He is right--  
"I have heard this said as well,"  
She says,  
Pulling him to herself  
So that he might rest his head over her shoulder  
So that she might in the scent of his hair  
Its musk and its ambergris  
Dwell.

"And I know this to be true.  
However, the world demands we wed:  
Let it be as soon as possible,"  
She sighs,  
Already terrified they should be discovered here  
Embracing outside wedlock.

To think of spending hours, days  
Let alone weeks  
Without this sweet weight of his  
Now anchoring her into the ground  
Keeping her safe in her emotions' storms  
Calm and serene and still--  
Oh, it squeezes and twists her heart  
A terrible, clawed, beastly and cruel fist.

"I would not have it be weeks,"  
He sighs into her neck in turn;  
"Yet I am Caliph  
And the people expect a great feast.  
Yet trust in me, my lady  
That I shall come to you in spirit,"  
He says, again kissing her hand;  
"Just as I have come to you every night  
To love you in your sleep."

"You will have to teach me,"  
She says, searching with her eyes his;  
"So that I can visit you in turn  
In your chambers:  
I would make it so that never again  
Would you have to go to sleep  
In the arms of Loneliness."

With a great groan,  
He hugs her to himself:  
He rocks her in his arms  
And what little breath  
He has not crushed out of her lungs  
He now swallows with his kisses deep.

And she adores being taken so,  
Possessed so,  
Her sex fluttering,  
Her womb heavy from blood  
Her body aching from her emptiness  
That she so yearns for him to fill.  
How can she bear this until her wedding night?

"I suggest you make a list!"  
He laughs as he helps her up,  
Helps her straighten her veil  
As she helps again fasten his robe.  
"A list of everything you want us to do  
Once the honeymoon comes."

She laughs a little nervously,  
Playing with his collar.  
"I would be driven mad  
Thinking of it all;  
Already I am half insane!"  
She says,  
Loath to separate from his embrace.

He shakes his head.  
"I have waited for a lifetime, my lady," he says,  
His smile melancholy and sweet;  
"What's a few more days?"

It is then that she looks up at him;  
She has decided.  
"A week from now,"  
She says,  
Nodding firmly.

He returns her nod.  
"I will use magic if I must!"  
He now declares.  
"Djinn instead of carpenters, painters, flower-weaving women;  
Spirits of the air and fire and water and wind  
As cooks, sweepers, seamstresses!"

She cannot but laugh.  
"As long as you keep them  
Out of the bedroom!"  
She says and now wraps  
Her arms about his neck  
For a farewell kiss.

"Oh, worry not, my sweet,  
He hisses and presses  
His groin against her,  
Showing to her his eagerness  
Firm against her belly  
That now spasms as her womb does  
\--Oh, this week will be torment!--  
"I intend to have you  
All to myself,"  
He purrs through gleaming red lips;  
"Oh, my dearest little sweet,  
I am going to eat you up _entire._ "

And it is at that that she kisses him  
With the deepest,  
Most despairing of passion's moans;  
He takes her up in his arms  
And spins her, spins her;

He plucks with his magic  
The petals of the blue rose  
Throwing them up into the air  
And there they whirl  
A groom and his bride:  
In a flurry of blue velvet,  
In a flurry of blue skirts  
In a flurry of blue fragrance

That is the remembrance of  
Love  
Love,  
Love.


End file.
